


whisper, whisper, shout

by cyanotiger



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Future Fic, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21618001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanotiger/pseuds/cyanotiger
Summary: Short fics written for a "things you said. . ." tumblr meme. Stand-alone chapters, mostly canon-compliant.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kyoutani Kentarou/Yahaba Shigeru
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	1. iwaoi | . . .on the phone at 4 am

**Author's Note:**

> the original meme is [here](https://emerald-psyche.tumblr.com/post/188178989564/prompts-1-things-you-said-at-1-am-2-things). feel free to request, if you want to.  
> for this chapter: confessions

_27) things you said on the phone at 4 am_

“Iwa-chan? Is everything o–okay?” Oikawa’s voice is muffled, but Iwaizumi still hears the yawn stretching his vowels and can practically see Oikawa slowly blinking away, even though they’re miles away.

“Sorry I’m calling so late.” His own voice comes out raspy, not-quite-sure, almost soft in its hesitancy. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry.”

“Mhmm. Then how come you’re calling me at…” A pause. “…four in the morning? And don’t apologize again.”

Iwaizumi exhales, sitting up on his own bed. His roommate –who might be a nice guy, but absolutely cannot compare to having Oikawa around– is out for tonight, and the walls of the apartment are thick enough that he doesn’t have to worry about disturbing anyone else in the building. Pulling the sheets toward his chest and feeling embarrassingly child-like for doing so, he whispers, “I miss you.”

A silence spreads for a moment, but before it can settle like a blanket, Oikawa says, “I miss you too, Iwa-chan.”

It’s not exactly the adjustment to university life that had tripped Iwaizumi over. Getting the hang of managing his own place and classes was, albeit originally daunting, not something that had made stress well up like water in his lungs. After the first two weeks or so, he was managing those on his own just fine.

No, the biggest hurdle to overcome had been life without Oikawa less than three feet away from him. The first days gave him whiplash, when he would go to comment on or joke about something the professor said, or ask about what movie they were gonna watch on Sunday, or bitch about Ushijima, and he had to take a moment for his brain to catch up with the fact that Oikawa wasn’t right there.

It’s still an effort. He knows he hasn’t fully gotten used to it yet, even after four months of being separated. At least he’s less irritable about it, and has made quite a few new friends, but…maybe it was just the holidays coming and bringing along added loneliness, but this week he’s found himself with chest pangs more and more often.

“It’s kinda stupid, I guess,” He says eventually, in an effort to hide such raw, ugly vulnerability. “But I just wanted to hear your voice.”

It’s a futile effort. “No. It’s not stupid.” And maybe it’s the fact that it’s four in the morning, and everything seems hazier and dreamlike, like something’s gonna burst the bubble, but Oikawa’s tone is so, _so_ gentle; Iwaizumi’s heard him like that only a handful of times. “I get it.”

The bubble grows; it grows, it grows, it grows, and with it Iwaizumi’s heart.

“Hey,” he tells Oikawa, not waiting for the _hmm_ that comes either way. Bubble’s gonna burst, and he’ll be the one responsible. “I know this isn’t the kind of thing that you say on a phone call. Or when it’s four AM, but.” He closes his eyes, like Oikawa’s right there with him and he has to hide from his wonderful eyes, because he can’t stand Oikawa _seeing_ him. “But, I need you to know.”

Iwaizumi’s throat is too tight around his heart.

“I’m in love with you.”

He’d meant to say it steadily, bravely, someone meeting their fate head-on. It breaks in the middle. The word _love_ comes out more as a sob, and when he looks down, his knuckles are gripping the sheets so hard they’ve turned paper-white.

One, two, three beats of silence. “Iwa-chan,” Oikawa answers. “Christmas is in a week from now.”

“Yes.” It’s like he’s swallowed sandpaper. They’d discussed in back in November that they were both going to return home for winter break, unless they were so busy with their classes it was beyond reach. That caveat had left a bitter taste on Iwaizumi’s mouth.

Iwaizumi doesn’t see how the question’s relevant now, or how it is an appropriate response to his spilled guts, but then again, Oikawa still manages to surprise him even after one and a half decade of being friends.

“Are you gonna come back to Miyagi for the holidays?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Oikawa says, so quietly Iwaizumi almost doesn’t catch it. And then, he’s louder, determined, “Then, Hajime, I’ll kiss you in a week.”

Iwaizumi’s heart stops, then restarts. “Okay.”


	2. iwaoi | . . .with my lips on your neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established relationship, explicit sexual content

_52) things you said with my lips on your neck_

Despite the coolness of the sheets, Iwaizumi’s breath is hot against his ear. Oikawa feels like he’s about to burst out of his own skin, toes flexing and chest contracting. He’s clenching his jaw so hard it’s probably gonna cause his teeth considerable damage if he keeps it up.

It’s hard to care about any of that though, not when Iwaizumi’s fucking him so good his heart stutters with every push.

A sound –a horrible, embarrassing, _clingy_ sound– leaves his lips, a keen that should be coming from a wounded animal instead of him.

“I’m not hurting you,” Iwaizumi states, hands having finished their course all over Oikawa’s body and now settling on his waist. There’s no hidden question beneath it; if Iwaizumi thought even for a second he was hurting him, he’d have stopped a long time ago. No, it’s something just on the side of too gentle to be a taunt; a tease, Iwaizumi’s teasing him about his moans, his pants, his downright _needy_ begging before.

 _‘I’m not hurting you,’_ he said and meant, _‘I’m giving you exactly what you want.’_

Iwaizumi’s one-thousand percent right.

“You think I can’t handle something harder?”

Oikawa pushes his luck anyway.

Iwaizumi grin darkens, but not before he rolls his eyes at Oikawa.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“You might’ve… _ahh,_ might’ve mentioned it once or twice before.”

Iwaizumi chuckles, and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “I should say it more often, then.”

The first time Oikawa had challenged him like that, Iwaizumi had fucked him so hard that when he got up to make coffee the next day, he fell flat on his ass on the floor.

(Iwaizumi carried him to the kitchen though, so really, he’d won twice.)

It’d worked for maybe two times after that. But ever since they were young Iwaizumi always caught on to whatever nonsense Oikawa tried with him, and so Iwaizumi knows now that Oikawa is being his usual bratty self.

Still, he does speed up, hands on Oikawa’s hips tightening. It’s like he’s against a stove top, thinks that when Iwaizumi pulls them away, there’ll be red hand prints burning on Oikawa’s skin.

The thought is searing enough on its own, but Iwaizumi’s murmured, honeyed words that somehow manage to sound both fond and annoyed at the same time make him bring a hand up to cover his face, forearm over his eyes.

“You just can’t stop pushing, can you? Can’t you _leave_ it, just _fucking leave it–”_

Oikawa’s broken moan is the only reply he can offer, so he pulls Iwaizumi down, breathing into his mouth. He’s met with a sloppy kiss, Iwaizumi’s focus splitting between that and bringing Oikawa on the brink of it. His hands move, abandon his hips to shove his back upward and slither underneath and their chests press together. He’s got Oikawa completely engulfed, in his arms, with no space between them, and _shit,_ that can’t be comfortable for him, but it’s Oikawa’s paradise.

Iwaizumi breaks the kiss, hips snapping forward, and Oikawa can see the effort in a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face; he can _feel_ the effort, has to bite his lip so hard it almost bleeds.

And then, Iwaizumi gives his neck a delicious, _delicious_ bite, whispers into the skin there. “Let go for me, Tooru. I’ve got you.”

Oikawa comes with a cry that’s dragged out of him, and Iwaizumi’s got him. He finishes, seconds later, thrusts gradually slowing and mouth still glued on Oikawa’s neck.

Oikawa’s eyes are closed, so he just hears the flop next to him, after Iwaizumi pulls out of him tortuously slow and with the lewdest sound. A hand comes to rest on his chest, and he turns toward it, a sunflower turning to the light.

Blissed out, he sighs, “I love you, Hajime.”

“Mmm. I love you too.”


	3. iwaoi | . . .that I wish you hadn’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post Karasuno vs Aoba Johsai 2, emotional hurt/comfort

_17) things you said that I wish you hadn’t_

Iwaizumi finds Oikawa where he expected, but still hoped he wouldn’t be. Empty water bottles litter Aoba Johsai’s court, along with volleyballs, some of them not yet still. He’s standing toward the back of the court, his posture perfect, back slightly curved and elbows that have just the right amount of width between them. The volleyball cart is right next to him and he’s setting balls as close to the net as he can, going from one corner to the other.

“The fuck are you doing,” Iwaizumi says gruffly, not bothering to turn it into a question.

A minuscule flinch is the only indication that Oikawa’s heard him, because he continues setting. “Hello to you too, Iwa-chan. I’m practicing.” His voice is light, as if he just told Iwaizumi that it’ll probably rain tomorrow.

Iwaizumi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I _see_ that.” Oikawa knows what he meant, and they’ve been friends long enough for him to also know that Iwaizumi’s not gonna let it slide; still, Oikawa always tries, no matter what. “The point is, today is our day off. We only played just _yesterday._ You shouldn’t be here in the first place. Dumbass,” he tacks on for good measure.

“Iwa-chan, it’s _fine,”_ Oikawa insists, eyes still on the volleyballs. “I’m just polishing my sets from different parts of the court, nothing wrong–”

“There’s gonna be plenty of stuff wrong,” Iwaizumi cuts him off, approaching in what he hopes is a menacing fashion, “especially since you shouldn’t be straining your knee.”

“My knee is fine,” Oikawa snaps, tone low and dangerous.

Iwaizumi knows this mood, this phase of Oikawa’s; he’s trying not to cry, and angry at himself about it.

“It won’t be if you keep pushing– hey! Are you even listening to me?”

“I’m listening to you.” It’s like exasperation has manifested, what with the way Oikawa speaks. Again, though, he keeps on setting, not making one move toward Iwaizumi.

When he sets the next ball, Iwaizumi jumps up and catches it, then throws it at his head.

“Hey!”

Ignoring Oikawa’s protests, he grabs the cart and hauls it away, picking up a few stray balls on the way. “You’re done,” he informs him. “Stretch and we’re leaving.”

“But–”

“No buts!” It comes out rougher than he wanted, almost a yell. Scowling, he brings his voice back to its regular volume. “You know it’s fucking bad for you. Now go stretch.”

Oikawa doesn’t move, though. His face is contorted into an ugly grimace, one that betrays his dissatisfaction and his ire.

When Iwaizumi stops in front of him, ready to physically drag him out –it wouldn’t be the first time, after all– Oikawa just says, “You don’t get it.”

“What? What don’t I get?” Iwaizumi barks. Once Oikawa gets like this, starts spiralling down, mind buckling under the weight of perfectionism, it’s nearly impossible to pull him out. Oikawa doesn’t give him a reply, eyes down turned, so he barrels on. “That we lost? That we lost to _Karasuno?_ Is that it? Trust me, Oikawa, I get the fact that we lost just fine, and it hurts like fucking _hell.”_ The night after the match, he sobbed and punched his pillow so many time his fists actually started to hurt. “Is that it? Or is it that you think that _you_ lost to _Kageyama?”_

Oikawa’s gaze snaps to meet Iwaizumi’s. _“It’s that I’m never gonna be good enough!”_ Furious tears escape from his eyes, no doubt against his will, and _oh._ In all honesty, Iwaizumi expected it, but some tiny, foolish part of him still wished Oikawa wouldn’t say it –wouldn’t believe it.

It’s plain impossible to ever convince him that he’s _enough._ Iwaizumi would know; he’s been trying his whole life.

Foot kicking the ground, Oikawa turns his head to the side, shutting his eyes. His lips curl inward, as if he’s trying to sew his mouth shut. His jaw clenches. Iwaizumi knows how to read him; Oikawa’s wishing he hadn’t actually confessed to that.

Before he can say anything, Oikawa’s voice returns, bitter and hurt, angry and hopeless. “I didn’t– I haven’t beaten _anyone._ Karasuno won, and either they, either Tobio or Ushiwaka will get to go to Nationals. Seijoh won’t. I’ll never get to set to you guys at Nationals. You and I–” he bites his lip, struggling to keep from shedding any more tears. He fails. Iwaizumi draws a shaky breath. “We’ll never play together at Nationals, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi’s expression changes in a grimace. Oikawa’s right; this is something they won’t get.

“So how could I _possibly_ be enough?” Oikawa spits out. “I’m the captain. I’m the setter. It was my responsibility to lead us to victory, and I couldn’t.” Iwaizumi opens his mouth– “I know what you’re gonna say; the team with the better six is stronger, and I know that now.” The gym is quiet; Oikawa’s voice has winded down to nearly a whisper. “And you’re right. But since the players make up the team, if _I_ had been stronger, then respectively the team would have been stronger. And maybe we would have won.”

Oikawa doesn’t sit down so much as he lets himself drop on the floor. He hides his face in his knees, and Iwaizumi follows him down.

When it becomes evident that Oikawa is done talking, he asks, “Do you blame me?”

Silence.

“Because I’m the ace. I too had a responsibility to the team,” Iwaizumi urges, voice raspy. His heart is heavy, as if it’s digging a hole down his chest and heading for his stomach.

“You know I don’t.”

“Then don’t blame yourself.” Oikawa must be too burnt out to protest. “You– _We_ didn’t make it. And I can’t tell you that tomorrow or the next week or the next month it’ll be okay, because it sucks. It fucking _sucks.”_ His own eyes are getting wet, too. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t do great things in the future. Just because things didn’t work out now, it doesn’t mean they won’t work out in the future. And if they don’t, you’ll _make them_ work out.” He lets their arms rub together, disregarding Oikawa’s sweat getting on his jacket. “I have faith in you.”

Oikawa lets his head fall on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, sighing and biting the inside of his cheek; Iwaizumi feels his jaw moving. Then, he lies on Iwaizumi, head on his lap, without asking if it’s okay; he knows the answer’s _yes._

“Thank you,” he whispers.


	4. iwaoi | . . .with the tv on mute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _suggestive_ stuff, but no actual nsfw; not being ready to have sex

_37) things you said with the tv on mute_

They turned on the television two hours ago, but for the past twenty minutes, it’s a barely present thought in the back of Oikawa’s mind. Its sound is the only reminder of its existence, still there, otherwise he would have already forgotten about it, with Iwaizumi’s lips on his.

Sometimes, when Iwaizumi’s kissing him, Oikawa forgets his own name. Forgets to breathe.

His back has almost fully sunk into the cushion. Iwaizumi’s knee is digging in his inner thigh. He doesn’t mind.

He had hogged the corner of the couch, originally, when they were still relentlessly mocking the spanish telenovela, rolling their eyes at all the unnecessary drama and dragging the bad acting. Iwaizumi shoved him to the side about ten minutes in, squeezing in next to him, and when Oikawa pointed out all the available space and said, “I know I’m irresistible, Iwa-chan, but have some respect for yourself!”, he got an elbow to the ribs.

But sometime in the middle of the second episode, Oikawa’s head leaned to the side, finding its usual spot on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Sometime in the end of the second episode, or maybe the beginning of the third, Iwaizumi started kissing the top of Oikawa’s head and his forehead, nuzzling his hair. And sometime in the middle of the third episode, it had all led to _this._

 _This_ being the most intense, most overwhelming makeout session they’ve ever had.

Iwaizumi’s lips are warm on his. He’s slightly turned to the side in order to kiss Oikawa breathless, one hand above Oikawa’s waist; on his left rib cage; his thumb keeps tracing the bones. His other hand has found its way in Oikawa’s hair, fingers massaging the back of his head, like he’s scratching a cat.

It’s kind of like tickling, in a way; except that instead of Oikawa’s limbs clamping down on Iwaizumi’s fingers or getting as far away as possible, his head tilts back, seeking the warmth of the touch. It leaves his neck arched, exposed, and Iwaizumi takes advantage.

Oikawa shivers. He’s not sure if it’s because Iwaizumi’s lips have moved to suck on his neck or because of the contrast between the cold air and the hot trail from his mouth, to his cheek, and to where Iwaizumi’s kissing him now. His own hands are gripping Iwaizumi’s shoulders, bringing him closer, so much so that he’s practically between Oikawa’s legs now.

It’s just them tonight. Oikawa’s parents have gone to visit one of his aunts who got sick, and he and Iwaizumi always hang out on Saturdays anyway. It’s not the first time they’ve stayed alone in the house, even after they got together. But it’s late, and it’s quiet, and Iwaizumi seems to be in a particularly loving mood today.

It’s too much at once and it’s making him heady. Oikawa feels almost like he’s drunk; the same sensation of losing his damn mind, thoughts jumbling together and spinning in random circles. Briefly, he wonders if Iwaizumi feels the same; if he affects Iwaizumi as much as Iwaizumi affects him.

And then, Iwaizumi’s hand moves from his ribs, fumbles around the armrest, until it finds what it’s looking for. The spanish stops, television on mute. Oikawa’s heart stutters.

As Iwaizumi’s hand returning on his side, the hair on the back of his neck rises. His collarbones are getting most of Iwaizumi’s attention, the skin there either getting sucked or playfully bitten. Iwaizumi presses even closer, going below his ear first, then nipping it. Oikawa almost chokes on air as Iwaizumi gives him something dangerously close to a full-body roll. Something’s coiling in his stomach, but he’s not sure what.

But then Iwaizumi’s fingers find the hem of his shirt and dip below it, skin on skin. Oikawa can feel Iwaizumi’s relaxed smile on his clavicle.

His legs still go limp below the knee, as if someone’s taken a chainsaw and cut off all the nerves there.

Seeing the other one naked —not even that, shirtless— is one-hundred percent usual. They see each other shirtless almost every day at the end of practise. Oikawa doesn’t get nervous while being shirtless around Iwaizumi.

But this is not Iwaizumi seeing him shirtless. This is Iwaizumi _undressing_ him.

The air he’s breathing in is too big for his lungs.

His shirt is gently, _slowly_ being pushed up.

His chest is gonna explode any second.

“Hey,” he whispers. It’s still too loud for the previous quiet that housed only hums and pants.

His shirt stays where it is, Iwaizumi’s hand stopping its movement. “Hey, could we. . .”

Iwaizumi’s mouth has pulled away from him. He’s looking at Oikawa, waiting. He doesn’t look impatient; just curious, and slightly out of breath, Oikawa notes with a hint of gratification.

“Is it okay if we. . .” His tongue trails off without his permission, stops.

Iwaizumi’s still looking at him; he hasn’t made another move.

Oikawa tries again.

“Is it okay if we. . .” He squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip. “. . .If we don’t. . .go _there_ yet?”

Rationally, he knows it is. Rationally, he knows Iwaizumi would be absolutely down with just cuddling for the rest of the night. Rationally, he knows he’s entitled to not feel ready yet.

Rationally, he knows all that.

Emotionally, he’s still agonizing over his hesitation.

There’s no way Iwaizumi’s gonna pressure him; but what if he thinks _he’s_ done something wrong? What if he thinks it’s _his_ fault instead of Oikawa’s own—

“Of course.” Iwaizumi’s voice is raspy, and he clears his throat. And yet, he spoke in such a soft tone. He pulls away, sits in front of Oikawa so that only their shins are touching.

“I’m sorry, it’s honestly not something you did—” Oikawa babbles, filter gona now that he said the first words.

“You don’t have to explain,” Iwaizumi cuts him off, a small smile playing on his lips. He reaches out to smooth Oikawa’s shirt and get it back to its actual place, instead of half off. Oikawa doesn’t mind. “You’re not ready, and that’s fine.”

“I. . .know. But I still don’t want you to think that _you_ did something wrong, because you didn’t. You’re wonderful. This is completely my. . .” He grimaces, trying to find the right word. Iwaizumi will chew him out if he says _‘fault’._ “. . .My issue.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, not fooled by Oikawa’s choice of word. “Fine. Then I won’t think I did something wrong. Idiot,” he says, and it sounds the way _sweetheart_ would.

“So mean.”

Iwaizumi snorts.

Oikawa kicks him, all the tension drained from his body. “Hey.” When Iwaizumi turns, eyebrows raised, Oikawa cocks his head to the side and gives him his best puppy eyes —and no matter how much he insists, Iwaizumi is not immune to them. “Wanna cuddle?”

Already, Iwaizumi has scooted next to him. “Sure.”


	5. kyouhaba | . . .that I wasn’t meant to hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> overhearing, realizations

_20) things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear_

Practice ended over half an hour ago, and Yahaba would usually be long gone by now. He rolled his ankle earlier, though, so he’s taken his time stretching, making sure to be extra careful. It wouldn’t do for the team to keep having an injured setter the next year.

The mirrors across the showers are foggy, a few stray drops rolling down the surface. There’s still steam rising, pulling the temperature up, up, up, to the point where it gets uncomfortable, even in the chilly days of early march.

The lockers, by contrast, are much cooler, and the sudden change gives him goosebumps. After he’s quickly changed into his school uniform, he hoists his bag up, slinging it on one shoulder, ready to step out on the court to leave.

“Frankly, Kyoutani, I don’t get it.”

He stops when he hears Iwaizumi’s voice.

“But Iwa-chan, that’s because _you_ have no idea how feelings work.”

That, Iwaizumi and Oikawa staying behind to practise, is not rare. Quite the opposite, although most of the times it’s Oikawa polishing his killer serves and Iwaizumi staying to make sure he doesn’t push himself too hard.

Kyoutani, though? Yahaba can’t remember Kyoutani staying so late, especially not to hang around _Oikawa._

“I don’t get how girls fawn all over you. You’re insufferable.”

The unmistakable sound of a volleyball being hit reaches Yahaba, followed by it slamming down the floor.

“Clearly, it’s because of my amazingly good looks and supreme personality— _Ow!_ Such a brute, Iwa-chan, and then you wonder why I have girls around me. But _anyway,_ back to the issue at hand.”

Yahaba peers from the lockers’ corner. Oikawa is standing outside of the court, the half-empty volleyball cart next to him. Both Iwaizumi and Kyoutani are watching him, backs turned to Yahaba. Kyoutani’s shoulders are hunched, and even though Yahaba can’t see it, he knows he’s scowling like there’s no tomorrow.

“I know that you’re not used to, hmm. . .feelings of _affection_ toward someone else, but that doesn’t mean you should let them get in the way of practice.”

A _hmph_ comes from Kyoutani.

“Wait, Shittykawa. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about our dear Mad Dog’s little _crush_ on Shi-chan.”

_What._

“What?” Iwaizumi says.

“Not a crush,” Kyoutani growls.

Yahaba’s heart is beating like crazy. _The hell?_

Another serve. “Ah, so it’s more than that! All the better for you —or worse, depending on how you look at it.”

“Wait, wait, time out,” Iwaizumi says. Yahaba sends him a silent thank you. “How did _you_ come to that conclusion?”

Oikawa’s voice is almost dismissive, like it’s obvious. “I mean, I had my suspicions already. But the Mad Dog has been a lot more aggressive these past few days toward Yahaba-chan, so I figured he must have come to terms with it.”

Kyoutani. . .strangely doesn’t deny it.

Yahaba too had noticed Kyoutani’s aggression spiking lately. It was hard not to, when almost all of it was directed at him. But he’d thought it was some weird Kyoutani thing, not directly related to him.

“I just thought you guys fought or something,” Iwaizumi mutters.

“Nope!” Oikawa answers airily, sounding way too pleased. “Because Yahaba-chan has been acting like he usually does, so. No fight, probably.”

“No fight,” Kyoutani’s grunt confirms.

“Anyway, I have zero issue with all that, as long as you don’t let it affect practice again, mmkay, Mad Dog?”

No answer, only footsteps getting farther away from Yahaba. He sags against the wall, breathing a soundless sigh of relief.

“Oi, Kyoutani! You better not let it get in the way of volleyball,” Iwaizumi calls out.

“Yes. I won’t.”

 _“My god,”_ Oikawa groans, voice dripping with exasperation and displeasure. If there’s anyone in their team who absolutely _hates_ being ignored, it’s definitely their captain.

After the door closes, Iwaizumi stays, “Another five serves, then we’re leaving.”

“But—”

_“No.”_

“Fine.”

Which reminds Yahaba, he should also be leaving, but there’s no way to get to the actual exit and pass undetected from his upperclassmen, and he’d rather _die_ than face them now.

 _Well,_ he thinks while considering climbing out of the locker room’s window, _tomorrow’s practice will certainly be interesting._


	6. iwaoi | . . .always meant to say but never got the chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some sort of humans-vs-vampires war au. angst with a happy ending

_54) things you always meant to say but never got the chance_

Iwaizumi hates his past self for being a coward. It’s a little ridiculous, how afraid he’d been of uttering five tiny little words.

_I’m in love with you._

It’s ridiculous, because there’s so much worse in their world. There’s vampires _—monsters—_ and skirmishes over territories and deaths every month, no, every _week,_ but somehow. Somehow, Iwaizumi never thought that it would touch either of them. That it could _kill_ either of them.

Three months. Three months have passed since Iwaizumi had to watch a rogue vampire ambush Oikawa from behind and sink its teeth into his neck, drinking and drinking until Oikawa slumped forward, eyes dropping, but not before giving Iwaizumi one last desperate look.

Iwaizumi’s scars on his wrists from where the second vampire held him still haven’t faded yet. He doesn’t know if he wants them to. He’d thrashed against it so hard to get to Oikawa he dislocated his right shoulder. After everything was over, Kindaichi popped it back, but sometimes —sometimes it’s still sore.

He can’t sleep tonight. It’s become his routine, sleeplessness. Or rather, falling asleep is not as hard as he had expected. _Staying_ asleep is the problem.

The first week after Oikawa’s death, he slept a total of five hours. It’s gone up since then, but not by much. Nightmares visit him every time he drifts off, usually featuring Oikawa’s limp body being dragged away from Iwaizumi. Once, the Oikawa in his dreams had opened his eyes again, asked in a broken voice, _“Why didn’t you save me, Iwa-chan?”_

Iwaizumi woke up crying that night.

It’s two forty-seven now; he woke up half an hour ago and he’s been turning around since, messing up the sheets even more. He’s resigned himself to staring at the ceiling, waiting for the dregs of his exhaustion to swell once more. He doubts he’ll manage to get more than another two hours, three if he’s lucky.

He sighs, dragging a hand across his face. The ache in his chest hasn’t faded one goddamn bit; it’s still as fresh, raw as it was when it all came crashing down and he realized what had actually happened.

Moments later, his ears catch a noise that sounds like scratching. He sits up, listening carefully to pinpoint where it’s coming from. It’s from the living room, but when Iwaizumi, still in the dirty sweatpants he uses for pajamas, turns on the light, there’s nothing out of the usual. Then he realizes something’s scratching his front _door._

Heart rate picking up, he fetches a wooden stake. His grip is so hard he’s probably gonna break it in a while. Warily, he approaches the sound.

It’s almost like a dog scratching the door, except slower, softer. . .pleading, somehow.

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath and swings the door open.

The stake slips from his fingers and clatters on the floor.

In front of him is Oikawa. He’s absolutely _emaciated,_ is the first thing Iwaizumi notices, and then takes in his tattered clothes —the same ones he was wearing that day.

And then, his eyes. Oikawa’s beautiful chocolate brown eyes have transformed into a deep ruby red and are currently looking at Iwaizumi in desperation.

Oikawa’s voice is watery and quiet, almost broken.

“I’m back, Iwa-chan.”


	7. iwaoi | when you thought I was asleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> established relationship, domestic, future fic

_12) things you said when you thought I was asleep_

“What’re you reading?” Iwaizumi says. He doesn’t wait for an answer, tilts the book back so that it’s nearly smushed against Oikawa’s face in order to read the title. He’s not met with Japanese. “Shakespeare?”

Oikawa hums. His eyes continue to run across the text behind the glasses. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, his back hunched. “I decided maybe I should read some of the foreign classics, since I’ve already read most of the Japanese ones.”

Iwaizumi changes into his pajamas and rubs his hair with the towel. “And you decided to read it in English?”

“You always lose something in translation,” comes the absent-minded reply.

“Yeah, but isn’t the original text written in the dialect of the time?”

“Not exactly a dialect, but yeah, Early Modern English,” Oikawa says. “I think I’ve gotten the hang of it, though.”

Iwaizumi leaves the bedroom to go hang the towel. _Overachiever,_ he thinks, not without a trace of fondness.

When he returns, Oikawa is in an even more hunched position, neck craned forward. “Hey, idiot. Sit against the headboard before you give yourself posture problems.”

“But Iwa-chan,” he whines, but complies nonetheless. Iwaizumi joins him, turning off the overhead light and staying with the soft glow of the lamp on Oikawa’s nightstand.

“Is it one of his comedies or tragedies?”

“I didn’t think you knew much about Shakespeare!” Oikawa sounds genuinely surprised.

“Because I’m a brute?” he says before Oikawa gets the chance to do it.

“Yes, exactly!” Iwaizumi snorts and rolls his eyes. “Anyway, it’s a comedy.”

Iwaizumi lies down and drags the blankets up to his neck. Even though his twenty-fourth birthday only seemed days ago, December has already begun, cold creeping in.

“Read me some.”

Oikawa blinks at him, eyes off the book. “I can’t translate it on the spot.”

“Read it in English. It’s okay if I don’t understand every word.”

“You sure?” After Iwaizumi’s nod, Oikawa huffs. “Fine, but you can’t make fun of my accent.”

“I’ll try—” he starts and is immediately cut off by a long yawn, “really hard not to.”

“Hmph,” is Oikawa’s response, but after a moment he begins either way. _“If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here. . .”_

Iwaizumi looks at Oikawa as he reads. It’s a great chance to do so; Oikawa is so absorbed, focused both on the text and reading it right for Iwaizumi that he doesn’t really notice or care for Iwaizumi’s gaze on him. They’ve been together for a little over four years, but sometimes he still gets caught up in the way Oikawa looks, even if it’s the most casual instance; like now for instance. Oikawa is sitting cross-legged, back partly against the pillow propped against the headboard, half-turned toward Iwaizumi. His glasses have slid lower on his nose, and Iwaizumi thinks distantly that they’re going to fall off if his head tilts any more. He’s wearing old grey sweatpants with at least three different holes in them and a navy blue t-shirt that has an alien head on the breast pocket. Iwaizumi knows that if he rips off the blankets from the bed, he’ll find white socks with blue and red stripes.

He loves Oikawa so much.

Eventually, his eyes close, a result of both the day’s exhaustion and Oikawa’s soothing voice. His accent’s really not that bad; more like endearing. The way he stumbles over certain words or mixes up the _r_ occasionally makes a small smile appear on his lips. He’s in that bizarre space right now, that not-exactly-awake, but not-quite-asleep middle, when your limbs turn into wax and your mind is floating somewhere far away. He doesn’t understand all of the text, especially not with the unusual grammar, but he thinks he gets the gist of it. Besides, it even _sounds_ pretty.

“And do it with all thy heart. I love. . .” Oikawa pauses above him, resumes after two beats have passed. “I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”

He’s silent for a while; then Iwaizumi registers a low, amused huff and the sound of the book being put on the table. “You know, that’s true,” he says, switching to Japanese. “I mean, I’ve never felt like _protesting,_ but. . .I love you so much. I know I’ve said it to you a lot and you’ve said it to me a lot, but still.” A hand touches Iwaizumi’s head, stroking his hair slowly, careful not to wake him up. “I love you so goddamn much.”

The scant light disappears, and Oikawa shifts next to him, sliding down and settling even closer. His warmth always softens Iwaizumi, even if he might admit it only rarely. He can smell Oikawa’s shampoo from how close they are, the familiar scent like a second pillow.

“I love you,” Oikawa murmurs in the darkness.

“I love you too,” Iwaizumi replies before falling asleep.


	8. iwaoi | . . .after it was over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fluff, future fic, pro-volleyball players

_22) things you said after it was over_

It takes Hajime about ten seconds to fully realize that they _won,_ and another five for the anticipation of what he’s about to do to bloom in his chest.

His teammates are in various states of disbelief. Their libero is clutching his hair and looking up in disbelief, mouth still open wide in shock. One of their middle blockers is looking from his hands to the ball on the other side of the net to his team. Their captain is trying to multitask, one hand across his mouth and the other one herding everyone together as the players off the court rush in to tackle them into a giant group hug that becomes a pile of human bodies on the floor.

The crowd’s screaming, loud enough to drown the female voice over the megaphones that announces Japan’s victory at the Summer Olympics in Tokyo.

And _Tooru._ Tooru looks so happy, so ecstatic Hajime could cry.

They get up, eventually, file in a single line horizontally and try not to cry as a woman hangs a gold medal around each one of their necks. They bow to the crowd and shout “Thank you for your support!” then stand tall again.

It’s a bit lucky, Hajime thinks, that he and Tooru have consecutive numbers, because walking to him during such a time would have looked awkward if not downright rude.

Hajime turns to look at Tooru. His smile is so bright Hajime feels like he’s drowning in it.

They’ve talked about it, in the abstract. Two, maybe three years ago, it came up in a casual conversation while they were watching a k-drama underneath two blankets. It was something they both wanted to happen, eventually, yet still felt a bitter twinge in their hearts that they would have to wait. Wait and see when it would be possible.

But four days ago, they watched the news, heard it on the radio, read online that it was legal now. They stared at each other, breaking in identical grins, nearly crying from joy. And it’s an impulsive decision on Hajime’s part, but not _really;_ this is what they both want. The occasion is perfect.

Hajime takes the medal off his neck and gets on one knee. Tooru shifts next to him, the corner of his eye picking up the movement, and his eyes get absurdly large.

The crowd in front of them screams. Hajime doesn’t quite hear it, only focuses on the words he’s about to say and how Tooru’s hands slap the front of his mouth and part of his nose.

“Tooru,” he starts, smiling, “I don’t have a ring. I—I’ve wanted to marry you for a while, but it just couldn’t happen and on Monday, we learned that it could.” Tooru seems ready to pass out, probably because he’s stopped breathing. “So I have no ring, but I really, really, _really_ want to marry you and I’m so happy when I’m with you and I want to keep you for the rest of my life if you’ll have me. And technically, this is gold, so it should be enough to keep you until i can get you a real ring.”

Tooru laughs, though it comes out more as a sob. His hands are still clutching his face. “Iwa-chan. . .”

“Will you marry me?” Hajime breathes out.

Tooru rushes down to kiss him breathless, head bobbing up and down like it’s stuck in the movement. Something wet touches the skin below his left eye, and _oh,_ Tooru’s crying. “Yes, yes, of course, of course I’ll marry you, Hajime—”

Hajime starts crying, too.


	9. iwaoi | . . . with clenched fists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> future fic, canon-compliant, training/boxing, slightly suggestive stuff, but no nsfw

_24) things you said with clenched fists_

“I figured out why this is so boring.”

They’ve been at this for over an hour, with five-minute breaks scattered throughout, just so they can drink water and wipe their foreheads.

Iwaizumi frowns while dodging his kick, unimpressed. “Boring? What’s so boring about trying not to get your ass handed to you?”

Oikawa scoffs, ignoring that remark. “There’s no _stakes,_ Iwa-chan. All this time, we’ve been—fighting with no reward or punishment as incentive.”

They’re on round number seven, maybe, only loosely keeping score. Despite Oikawa starting mixed martial arts later than Iwaizumi, he’d picked it up quickly, especially once his level rose enough for them to spar together.

“Okay, uhhh,” Iwaizumi responds, thinking. Clenching his fists, he throws an uppercut with his right one, smirking when it lands on Oikawa’s jaw. “Loser does the dishes when we get back?”

“Please. Get _serious.”_ Oikawa tries for a knee to the stomach. Too slow, Iwaizumi catches it, twists, and Oikawa’s back hits the gym mat. Iwaizumi’s on him in a second, straddling him. “Fine,” he says, voice low and gruff. Oikawa’s back forms an arch, but Iwaizumi pushes a hand on his rising chest and slams it down. “Winner gets to _top_ when we go back home.”

Oikawa smirks.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://emerald-psyche.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/emerald_psyche).  
> 


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